


The Dead I Owe

by visbs88



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Comfort/Angst, F/F, Headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 05:28:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18462425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visbs88/pseuds/visbs88
Summary: Laegjarn, summoned to be a part of the Order of Heroes, does not know who she really is anymore. Her past is nebulous and her present filled with doubts. One thing she is sure of, though: she remembers death’s darkness, and the mysterious, silver-haired maiden who’s come to save her from the shadows.





	The Dead I Owe

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [The Dead I Owe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17886086) by [visbs88](https://archiveofourown.org/users/visbs88/pseuds/visbs88). 



> Hi everyone! Wrote this fanfic a couple of months ago in Italian and decided to translate it into English. I must say I really enjoy this headcanon of mine, because I love Eir and Laegjarn and I find they really could have some interesting interactions. Fire Emblem Heroes plot and characterization aren’t stellar, but that’s exactly why it’s fun to fantasize about some issues they don’t bring up – for instance, I really don’t like that they brought Surtr among the Heroes, and not just because he’s a powercreep and a pain in the butt in the Arena, lol. So, I had fun mixing game mechanics with some character study for the two OCs I like the most inside Heroes! Please keep in mind hat I wrote this before Book III, Chapter 6 came out, so there may be some discrepancy with the canon in the future ^^’ this said, I hope you still enjoy it!  
> Lyrics in the beginning (and title) from “Bury a friend” by Billie Eilish.

[What do you want from me?

Why don’t you run from me?

What are you wondering?

What do you know?

Why aren’t you scared of me?

Why do you care for me?

When we all fall asleep,

where do we go?]

 

 

 

_The darkness around her is peaceful. It’s like velvet._

_Laegjarn sighs, a cold shiver rushing down her skin. Faint memories of an excruciating pain run through her limbs like a distant echo – flames melting down her clothes, her flesh, her bones, and tears on her face burning even more cruelly._

_But this darkness softly caresses her chest, her eyes and her lips. It’s a strange world, made of silky and reassuring nothingness. She can see, but mostly just shadows. She still holds her sword in her hand, and its reddish light is tinged with blue. The sound of her hesitant steps is muffled._

_There’s no anguish, and her memories are vanishing little by little. She wonders in which limbo her soul is lost, stained with too many sins committed in her father’s name, although her heart has always stayed pure and noble. Yet, however, she isn’t scared. She feels a vague melancholy, perhaps, an inexplicable desire to turn around, looking behind her…_

_But she doesn’t see the life she’s lived, ended in sacrifice and agony. She sees a figure following her, silently, little more than a ghost._

_She’s beautiful._

_Her dress blends in the shadows. She’s part of the darkness, she’s the darkness itself. But she’s also white, as white as ice and as cold as steel. Her skin shines, long hair falls like a silver cloak on her naked shoulders and fluctuates, indomitable and ethereal, until it becomes one with the void._

_Laegjarn lets her reach her: she doesn’t fear her. But the closer she gets, the more the yearning in her stomach seems to become consuming, gaining the flavor of eternity, of infinite sadness. It’s because of her eyes, she understands: those ocean-gray eyes, filled with blue tears. It’s terrible, how such a beautiful creature can retain such utter and sweet a pain in her gaze._

_Her long and gentle fingers brush on her cheeks. They feel like drops of rain in spring – light and gelid._

_Tears fall and run down her porcelain face. But the most delicate smile appears on her pale lips._

– _So brave. You deserved mercy._

_Laegjarn blinks, and the illusion disappears._

 

 

The darkness has remained within her. She fears it’s part of her, now. She feels it in her breath, she accepts it when she falls asleep, she lets it gather in the maze of her mind and, every now and then, she lets it caress her soul.

Laegjarn is confused. She hides her restlessness behind insincere smiles and she seeks shelf in solitude, grateful of still being dreaded by Heroes and Askrans just enough for nobody to be too willing to follow her around during her long walks in the castle between missions. She accepts to train in the Tower, to fight in the Arena, to battle in the Blessed Gardens even though they prove to be challenging even for seasoned warriors like her. She doesn’t like the Tempests, however, nor she enjoys the company of her comrades when it’s too insistent.

She’s not unhappy, but neither she manages to find relief. The Summoner assures her that, sooner or later, he’ll find Laevatein and he’ll call her by their side; when she hears that, her heart leaps of joy. But something is wrong, she tells herself afterwards, grimacing. Something troubles her.

Time and space are twisted. She shouldn’t be here. She doesn’t even know herself anymore: who’s this Laegjarn? The one the Askrans have met and defeated, or one from another world, who didn’t have to burn to her very core to save her dearest sister? But, if that’s the case, why does she  _ remember _ doing so?

No: in truth, she’s not sure she remembers the Rite of Flames. Every time she tries to recall it, it’s like a wall of blinding and incoherent fragments rises in front of the eye of her mind. Yet she  _ knows_, she knows what happened, or at least she believes so. If she didn’t, seeing princess Fjorm from a distance wouldn’t trouble her so. She should try to approach her, to forge that friendship they couldn’t have  before, broken and macerated in blood before even beginning. But, she tells herself bitterly, that couldn’t have been  _ her _ life. That fate can’t be rewritten, it doesn’t belong to her anymore. She’s more and more convinced of  it, because, if nothing else, she  does  remember the  _ darkness_. 

She can’t erase  it, has it been dream or reality. She can’t forget it and somehow it is the only tangible handhold she has left. Her existences in many different worlds are getting entangled in her mind, it seems, blending stories in which she survives with ones in which she falls in battle, times when her father has killed when she was still an infant and times when they have won, burning the world to ashes. But the darkness is there, the darkness belongs to her, it’s real and concrete and she  _ knows _ that Laegjarn, this Laegjarn, and no other, has lived through it.

 

 

When she arrives at the castle with Alfonse, Sharena, Anna and the Summoner, Laegjarn’s blood freezes in her veins, leaving her breathless and motionless.

It’s  _ her_, riding a pegasus with feathers weaved from shadows and eyes oozing with the light of the dead. She’s surrounded by Askr’s warm light, but it’s not enough to change her appearance. She looks more human, more tangible, more lively, but her face, filled with sadness and melancholy, leaves no space to doubt. And her dress, black veils like she’s mourning and hems white as snow, caressed by her thick cascade of silvery hair, is the same she wore during that everlasting night. 

Laegjarn narrows her eyes, stunned, and for once she doesn’t slip away from the room after making sure Fjorm has survived. She tightens her grip on her sword, nervous, but pervaded by a warmth, a tingling she thought she wouldn’t ever get to feel anymore. It seems to her it’s curiosity, a sudden excitement that pleasantly reminds her of fear.

That maiden of darkness and moonshine glances up for a moment, looking around with an expression Laegjarn recognizes. She knows she’s worn it,  too,  since her arrival  at the castle. It’s the apprehension of someone who’s never had the chance of feeling hope, joy, carelessness or love, and suddenly find themselves shoved in their arms, among smiling and cheerful princesses, Heroes worthy of such a name, young men ready to fight for justice and ideals nobody has taught them about  before. An uneasiness that’s not contempt, yet not relief  either. A deep nostalgia, of a gentle soul that understands  to be in the right place yet still yearns to be elsewhere. Laegjarn’s heart clenches:  who’s this fallen angel? Why has she seen her in the darkness, why does she remember every single detail of her? May she be another victim of the Summoner’s games, a spirit wishing only for the  _ mercy _ she had murmured about?

Then, Laegjarn meets her gaze. And she catches very clearly the vivid light flashing through it – surprise, a spark of life as glittering as a diamond. It lingers for more than just a couple of seconds; maybe it’s curiosity, the same kind she feels.

She’s recognized her.

Eventually Laegjarn steps back, her heart racing in her chest. As soon as she’s alone, in a corridor lined with white columns, she lets herself cry.

The darkness has existed. The maiden has existed.  _ She_, Laegjarn, has truly existed. 

The crushing weight of such a certainty makes her fall to her knees. At the same time, however, she feels like she’s finally breathing again.

 

 

They call her Eir,  _ Merciful Death_. Daughter of Hel, queen of the dead. Princess of the afterlife, prisoner and ally of the Order of Heroes. Maybe a spy, Anna thinks, while Sharena stubbornly rejects this hypothesis. 

In truth, Laegjarn really does not care.

Hel is the only creature her father ever admitted to fear. You can’t run from Death, she can’t burn nor beg for mercy. Death is both just and terrible, and never gives anyone the privilege to win her. Yet, Laegjarn is in this castle,  _ alive_, and she can find only one explanation. 

_So brave. You deserved mercy._

She has convinced herself, by now, that it was Eir who saved her. She’s seen her wandering through the gardens and the endless halls of the castle, just like she used to do. And how gracefully does she move, how wonderfully  and  elegantly does her hair flutter with every small movement of her dainty neck.  Laegjarn sees her and she feels within the darkness again – a maternal womb, perhaps, or the embrace of death itself, a cloak made of the same cloth as her dress. She hesitates for a few days, enthralled and intimidated by the dense feeling of mystery surrounding  Eir, eager to ask her the questions tormenting her and yet fearing to  evoke her fury. They say she’s quiet, she doesn’t smile,  and  she’s cold as ice. But her voice is crystalline like the song of a river, and she never says an impolite word. Little by little, all the Heroes are starting to appreciate her support during training, to sigh for her melancholic beauty, to admit that, for being Death’s daughter, she’s not scary nor cruel at all. She’s sweet, she can heal any wound. And Laegjarn was never a coward: eventually she approaches her, determined to establish frankly and honestly which bond do they share, sure that everything will gain a new meaning and she’ll be able to go back being herself, something she misses so dearly.

But Eir’s face doesn’t light up when she sees her, as Laegjarn has partly hoped. To her kind greeting she replies with a nod and lowers her gaze, moving away towards a window like she wishes to escape. Even the sun brushes her face with sweet melancholy, and such sight is heartbreaking.

– You and I know each other, princess. I won’t bother you any further, if you can just tell me… was it you who brought me back to life?

Eir crosses her arms on her chest. A pained motion, no matter how elegant; almost a spasm. The eyes meeting Laegjarn’s look like shed tears, but they’re dry, and distant. They carry the weight of inexorable fate, and for the first time Mùspell’s general sees in her the creature who’s followed her in the darkness.

– No. Death cannot give life back.

There’s no doubt in her words. They preclude every objection and they have the  sharp tone of someone who cannot be in the wrong, not even if they wanted to. And Eir frowns a little and then sighs, like  such sentence has taken a toll on her strength. Or maybe it was the look Laegjarn gave her, yet again beset by confusion and anguish, after believing she was about to defeat them. When the maiden speaks again, she does so looking out of the window, with words as delicate and fragile as a sheet of ice in the spring.

– The Summoner tells me you have many questions. And I feared right from the start that you would come to me seeking answers… answers that I, however, do not have at all.

– You’re… confusing me, princess – Laegjarn murmurs, a little more than a whisper cracked by doubt. She’s hesitating, unable to put back together the pieces of her newly shattered hopes, to recreate a picture at least allowing her to understand where she went wrong. She feels like a delusional fool, and she tells herself her father would be disgusted by her weakness, before remembering that she doesn’t care about him. She wants to compose herself, tightening her lips in the stoic, suffering expression she by now feels it’s her very own.

Eir sighs again, twisting her hands before her. But then she decides to explain, it seems, considering the determination coming to hover over her face like the most ephemeral ghost.

– Your memories don’t lie: I have met you – she begins, and Laegjarn holds her breath, hanging off her words like a castaway seeing a small, sharp rock in the sea, just as valuable as any land – My mother… she lets me collect souls overcome with pain, soothe their agony with the mercy of death. And your suffering, such a noble example of virtue, altruism and self-denial… it was heart-wrenching, the magnificence of life in all of its radiance.

Her melancholy becomes an almost affectionate admiration.

– I couldn’t resist the strength in your cry, the beauty in your heart. But never before this day… never, before the Summoner’s advent, has it happened that someone would remember me. That I’d see she who I had welcomed in my arms still alive. Laegjarn… I know what torments you so. I do remember your appearance, I do remember your story, but I can’t tell you if that soul was yours, the one within you right now, or another, from a different world. I’m sorry.

Laegjarn hangs her head, letting the sweet and terrible notes of Eir’s voice embed in her ears. She struggles to fully comprehend them, but one thing she does realize: her heart is weeping. Again.

The darkness was real, the darkness was exactly what she imagined. Yet, suddenly, its value is comparable only to the weight of dust in the wind.

– It must mean something – she whispers to herself, forgetting for a moment the maiden still standing in front of her. She must convince herself, she must hang on to the certainty that the dream isn’t just the bequest of an unknown soul, floating into her mind through Breidablik’s magic.

– It could be – Eir admits, even though her tone is vague and insecure – But I can’t dare to swear truths which could prove to be lies.

Such disillusion is too scorching for Laegjarn to still pay attention to the princess’ grace.

– You have my thanks – she says, trying to at least maintain a semblance of courtesy, although insincere – I… beg your pardon.

After a little curtsy, she’s about to turn her back on her. To seclude herself in the shadows of her bedroom, away from anything else, pretending to truly exist.

– Laegjarn.

She stops, her eyes darting towards the white, small hand reaching for her, and then towards her dainty feet, which have moved a step in her direction, with a faint click of her black, shiny heels.

Eir looks filled with authentic compassion, with a more intense sorrow than what Laegjarn has given her credit for up until now. She now regrets her attempt to leave her in such a rush, maybe even brusquely.

– I would… like to speak with you again. Please, don’t ever hesitate to come talk to me.

It’s odd, hearing her pronounce a request that would seem more appropriate on the lips of one of the many kind, friendly Heroes in the castle, instead of the ones of Death’s daughter herself, the angel of mercy and benevolent deaths. Laegjarn eyes her and she sees again a young, lost, ethereal girl, subject for legends too great for her and at the same time too high of a spirit for the land that’s welcomed her. She’s not human, yet she seems yearning to become one. She’s as pure as a spring in a forest, yet poisoned by indefinite shadows, just making her even more unique.

If there’s someone, in Askr, which Laegjarn feels she can form a bond with, it can’t be but her. She may not possess answers, but she’s closer to her than she could ever dare to hope.

– You have my word, princess.

 

 

Her sadness turns into fury the day she finds out her father has arrived to the castle. She also feels a crushing sense of dread.

She doesn’t care if they assure her he’s on their side and will never betray them, nor he will harm anyone until the Summoner has him under control. She doesn’t care if Kiran himself tells her that Surtr’s hunger for power has quietened, or at least has been put at the Order of Heroes disposal. She doesn’t care if they say he’s not the same monster who has forced her to massacre, destroy, burn, grow more and more cunning by the day for the ever lasting anguish of not being enough for him, or in order to protect Laevatein.

It only means that she could meet him, now. That other Summoners from other worlds – as if one doesn’t suffice, overturning any kind of earthly balance – will use her father’s might in the Arena, or in those flying lands getting so much attention from the Order’s strategists, lately, and so she could end up fighting him. The undermost peace she’s slowly managed to build for herself has disappeared like ashes in a river. And, ultimately, now she’s also sure she’s not the only one whose existence can be shattered to be toyed with by the Askrans. At this point, the line between life and death is so faint, she even wonders why she even bothers not to fall in battle.

She runs to Eir to vent all of her resentment, wondering if Hel’s princess isn’t irritated by such control they have over her domains. But Eir, brushing the silky black coat of her pegasus, seems intent in other thoughts, even though not indifferent to her pain.

– It must be horrifying, for you – she does in fact murmur, hanging her head. Rays of sunlight intertwine in her long silvery ponytail, creating a veil of pearls and topazes on her back – After all, your death was a mean to escape him as well as of saving your sister, wasn’t it?

– There was no other choice – Laegjarn replies, crossing her arms, pacing nervously nearby. She doesn’t like to appear vulnerable, or upset, but she’s already talked many times with this dark maiden. Eir has become the only one she can truly call a friend, in this place. A trusted partner in battle, and an attentive and sensitive listener.

– I see – Eir says. After a pause, she continues – However, this time I can assure that this creature cannot in any way be a part of this universe. The real Surtr…

She stops herself and Laegjarn gets a glimpse of the look in her eyes just in time to read in them a spark of guilty. Eir has the expression of someone withholding a secret, or many, and the only thing she can do to hide them is surrounding herself with silence and grasping her hands together. Her pegasus neighs, shaking its head, and slips away from her, heading towards the shade of some trees. Eir doesn’t follow it.

– The real Surtr is among Hel’s ranks, isn’t he? – Laegjarn asks, curling her lip – Of course. I should have known.

And while she ponders on this new fact, ignoring Eir’s contrite gaze, she’s caught by a thought that almost makes her laugh.

– What about me? – she asks, even though she’s mostly talking to the wind blowing in her face, to the almost sickening scent of the flowers, and to the endless sky above her – You haven’t seen me in her army? I would be glad: it could mean that, in truth, I am really here.

– No, I have not seen you – Eir replies, but Laegjarn knew it already. And, oddly enough, she doesn’t really feel joy upon this revelation.

It’s just yet another hypothesis, like any other. It’s just another idea hovering within the flow of destiny and universes. It doesn’t prove anything. Thanks to Hel’s princess presence, her life in this castle has acquired back a little bit of warmth. She feels less weightless, less meaningless, less alone in her miserable condition. Maybe she’s just found another shadow and not yet a real new purpose, nor peace. But, as it stands now, she thinks it’s enough for her, and her questions about her identity have become a little less insistent, even though they still disturb her sleep.

– Laegjarn…

That call brings her back to reality. Eir has come closer. Her white skin glimmers, but her eyes are somber like the sea under a stormy sky: not even lightning is there to cast some light within them, much less so the warm sun rays above them.

– Will you tell Kiran? Do you think I should…? – She trails off, not even daring to look at Laegjarn’s face. Mùspell’s general studies her, wondering if she should somehow think less of her. But, eventually, she decides to follow with what she has come to believe: Eir is a gentle creature. And whatever she’s involved into is surely not her fault, nor her heart would want to her to pursue it. It’s a situation Laegjarn has lived in for too long not to understand it.

– I won’t mention it – she says, and then her voice softens more than she’s meant it to – And I think you don’t have to, at least until they won’t ask.

Through her dark eyelashes, Eir looks at her with mixed feelings – suspicion, surprise and hurt. But eventually she gives in to a timid smile. Her lips are like a white rose’s blossoms; her features look brighter, more lively.

– Thank you – she answers, caressing her with her gaze, and Laegjarn smiles back. Then, Eir moves away, taking a few steps on the grass, surrounded by light even though her black dress always seems ready to absorb it all, a veil of gelid shadows making it impossible to forget where she comes from. For the very first time, Laegjarn wonders if the colors she wears, her fiery cloak and red fabric covering her hips and her breasts, may be a similar, persistent reminder for the Askrans. Of those days when Mùspell has spilled Nifl’s blood and set even ice on fire.

She follows Eir’s ponytail’s fluid movements with her eyes, captivated, almost forgetting the anguish that’s brought her to her earlier. Until she can stay here, in her company, not even Surtr will dare to get close – the threat of Death’s daughter herself is too heavy. And, beside any cold calculation, the princess keeps instilling in her the same calmness the darkness gives her, like a lifeline.

– After all, I think I love this world – she hears Eir whispering, before she turns to her, a single lock of hair sliding on her naked shoulder, her eyes filled with cautious, glum optimism – Maybe destiny is just following a designated path. And one day, perhaps… my mother, from another world, might come to join us.

Laegjarn’s eyes widen. Immediately after, a surge of irritation brings her to grasp the hilt of her sword, even though she lets go a moment later.

Is it possible that Eir is _envious_ of her? Is it possible that even she, like everyone else, soon will tell her she should try talking with Surtr, forming an impossible, morbid, deceiving bond? Is it possible she’s so delusional?

– Hel will never lend her might to any mortal, in this world or any other – she retorts, brusquely, and she soon sees some hurt surprise on the princess’ face – I don’t doubt Kiran might try to make her submit, but that’ll be day I shall rebel to all of this, I swear it. And she won’t change, just like Surtr isn’t any different than before. She’ll just be a puppet deprived of any will, but her heart will still be ruled by evil.

– My mother isn’t evil! – Eir replies, instinctively, raising her voice like Laegjarn has never heard her doing before. But, instead of being threatening, her frail figure trembles, making her look as human as ever under all those veils and her weak armor made of ice. And it’s clear she doesn’t really believe in what she just said, nor she truly thinks it’s a lie.

She’s just a confused child, right now, a daughter blinded by affection. She irritates Laegjarn just like her own grim reflection within mirrors.

– She’s invading realms she has no right to rule – she states, raising her head arrogantly – Just like everyone else. And we, as the stupid pawns we are, obey.

She’s scratching her own heart with these words, and her wounds bleed even more at the sight of the dull pain clouding Eir’s gray pupils. Regretting her fiery character, that’s brought her to take it all out on her, and yet incapable of going back on her words because of her pride, Laegjarn turns her back on Eir and starts away.

Askr should be a realm of peace and friendship. Then why can’t she feel anything other than torment, and doubts, and guilt?

 

 

A few evenings later, Eir catches her looking at the moon.

Laegjarn regrets at once having turned to glance at her as soon as she heard the faint rustle of her light steps. She’s so gorgeous, wrapped in the blue of night and the weak glimmering of the stars. All white flowers around her seem to fade, and the darkness of the far corners of the garden pales. She absorbs all shadows and silver rays, she exudes the same elegance of the lights above them and she moves with the same impalpable grace of the scents around her.

She sits besides Laegjarn without saying a word. She waits just a couple of seconds before sliding a hand on top of hers.

Laegjarn lets out a deep sigh. She’s missed her. Her melancholic gaze, the unfathomable depths of her immortal and ephemeral existence. Her shadows, her delicate voice, her silky hair.

– I apologize for my words. I wasn’t in me – she decides to say, still looking at the moon instead of Eir. Its color, after all, is the same as her face’s.

– Don’t you worry. I’ve been foolish and thoughtless myself.

Their fingers intertwine. And all thoughts are undone, they fizzle out. Laegjarn decides to stop asking herself questions, elaborating plans to avoid her father, pondering on betrayals, destiny, space and time. At least for tonight. At least right now, when she turns to Eir and looses herself in the liquid silver of her eyes.

She strokes her cheek and leans down on her. Eir’s lips are cool and therefore they burn against hers, which are too hot. She tastes of the night around them, of the scent of remote mysteries, of the darkness Laegjarn longs for, tearing her heart apart.

Maybe, she wasn’t just looking for herself, up until now. Maybe, the void inside her was also caused by this long-lost love, winning her over right when all was destined to fade away.

Maybe, knowing she can have it back makes her feel, somehow, complete.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Come take a look at my [Facebook page](https://www.facebook.com/Visbs88/), if you like :) content is mostly in Italian for now, but I plan to make it a bit more English friendly if I see I have some public oversea ;) cheers!


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